CHICAGO (SNARKY) -- It's that time of year again: a chance to reflect on the year that was, to atone for mistakes made and to vow to try harder in the future.
No, I'm not talking about New Years Eve and its bullshit resolutions but rather the best hook-up holiday of all: Halloween. Invariably, All Hallows Eve is a fete for the senses and psyche; people dress up and act down.
Part of it is the costumes and how you feel wearing clothes not your own and another part of it is the role playing and indulging in your fantasies that make Halloween without peer. But, really, Halloween is all about hooking up.
Over the years everything from butterflies to baby Elvii have Halloween hooked up with this French maid cum cowboy. Not because we were soul mates or drunk or anything like that but because we each offered the other the specter of fantasy fulfillment.
It's the sense that, hey, I spend every other day buttoned down and laced up so why can't I be fucking deprave and debauch with someone else who feels exactly the same way?
We're consenting adults... dressed like children.
# # #
Friday, October 27
Wednesday, October 25
A Cautionary Tale
CHICAGO (SNARKY) -- Listen up, kiddies, for I have been down this road already.
You're young, full of life, minimally scarred and supposedly "the future." (I dispute that because "the future" is really hydrogen and not our iDeaf generation.)
You've got the world by the short hairs and you want to make a difference. The best way that you see how is the patented three-point plan:
1.) Start a blog.
2.) ???
3.) Profit.
Let me tell you something, sonny boy, no one (and I mean no one!) gives two shits about the rambling nonsensical web logs of some pubescent teenager living in a cul-de-sac railing against their militaristic parents whose tyranny precludes you any outlet save the aforementioned blog.
Instead, people care about what a thirtysomething -- thank you, Ed Zwick, I just now truly understand your show of the same name a mere 15 years after it went of the air -- with a penchant for obscure words and unorthodox grammar sporadically espouses as fodder from his daily life.
Thirties are the new twenties and it's for real this time. Look at how I've grown over the years, I'm more fascinating now than ever! Hell, I just called up my order history at Amazon.com to verify this.
In 1997, my first purchase from the stratospheric-P/E online retailer was Don Delillo's "Underworld" a masterwork of fiction about a fucking baseball and the nuclear Cold War. The New York Times considered the book the second-best fictional work of the last 25 years. I didn't make it past 50 pages of the three-inch thick doorstop.
See, Luke 10-years ago, was an excruciatingly boring person.
But what, oh what, is in my Wish List these days over at the world's largest bookstore? You'll never guess.
Like I said, "I'm much more fascinating now than ever."
# # #
You're young, full of life, minimally scarred and supposedly "the future." (I dispute that because "the future" is really hydrogen and not our iDeaf generation.)
You've got the world by the short hairs and you want to make a difference. The best way that you see how is the patented three-point plan:
1.) Start a blog.
2.) ???
3.) Profit.
Let me tell you something, sonny boy, no one (and I mean no one!) gives two shits about the rambling nonsensical web logs of some pubescent teenager living in a cul-de-sac railing against their militaristic parents whose tyranny precludes you any outlet save the aforementioned blog.
Instead, people care about what a thirtysomething -- thank you, Ed Zwick, I just now truly understand your show of the same name a mere 15 years after it went of the air -- with a penchant for obscure words and unorthodox grammar sporadically espouses as fodder from his daily life.
Thirties are the new twenties and it's for real this time. Look at how I've grown over the years, I'm more fascinating now than ever! Hell, I just called up my order history at Amazon.com to verify this.
In 1997, my first purchase from the stratospheric-P/E online retailer was Don Delillo's "Underworld" a masterwork of fiction about a fucking baseball and the nuclear Cold War. The New York Times considered the book the second-best fictional work of the last 25 years. I didn't make it past 50 pages of the three-inch thick doorstop.
See, Luke 10-years ago, was an excruciatingly boring person.
But what, oh what, is in my Wish List these days over at the world's largest bookstore? You'll never guess.
Like I said, "I'm much more fascinating now than ever."
# # #
Thursday, October 5
An Argument Against 'Cold Opens'
CHICAGO (SNARKY) -- Damn you, network television.
I could handle one television series where I was "Lost" and playing catch-up to what is really going on. But with the recent debuts of "Jericho" and "The Nine" from CBS and ABC, respectively, I feel enough is enough.
Both are "Lost" retreads replete with poor man's versions of non-linear storytelling, pseudo-mythology and masochistic psychology. It all adds up to "science friction" to this beleaguered viewer.
As they say in Hollywood, "imitation is the sincerest form offlattery a steady paycheck." But, by God, these two fall offerings are downright abysmal.
"Jericho" plays to our nookular F.U.D., or fear, uncertainty and doubt. Nice timing on CBS' behalf considering the remaining band members of that irascible "Axis of Evil" trio. Iraq left the group for his solo project whilst North Korea and Iran continue to tour, albeit smaller venues than New York's U.N. General Assembly hall.
Manning the helm at "Jericho" is Skeet Ulrich, who hasn't done good work in the decade since "Albino Alligator." His brooding eyes and wooden acting do little to advance the ball of spaghetti that serves as the drama's plot line.
Meanwhile, Tim Daly, protagonist of "The Nine," makes us wait interminably as though again we're caught in a two-bit municipal airport during the holiday crush in the middle of a snowstorm.
What happened during the 52-hour standoff of a foiled bank robbery? Taking a page from Jack Bauer, the answer will be revealed -- like a Band-Aid pulled much too slowly from a scab -- in 52 episodes allowing for Daly and his cohorts to collect 49 superfluous paychecks.
Add in the lame military PSYOPS cum Stockholm Syndrome angle and we've got a hole in ABC's Wednesday night schedule. However, the lead-in audience from "Lost" alone will allow this show to sputter along over two seasons. And that's two seasons too long in my not-so-humble opinion.
I'm going back to "The Simpson's" re-runs from the third through eighth seasons, when they were at the subversive highpoint, to tide me over the six days to another new "Lost" episode.
# # #
I could handle one television series where I was "Lost" and playing catch-up to what is really going on. But with the recent debuts of "Jericho" and "The Nine" from CBS and ABC, respectively, I feel enough is enough.
Both are "Lost" retreads replete with poor man's versions of non-linear storytelling, pseudo-mythology and masochistic psychology. It all adds up to "science friction" to this beleaguered viewer.
As they say in Hollywood, "imitation is the sincerest form of
"Jericho" plays to our nookular F.U.D., or fear, uncertainty and doubt. Nice timing on CBS' behalf considering the remaining band members of that irascible "Axis of Evil" trio. Iraq left the group for his solo project whilst North Korea and Iran continue to tour, albeit smaller venues than New York's U.N. General Assembly hall.
Manning the helm at "Jericho" is Skeet Ulrich, who hasn't done good work in the decade since "Albino Alligator." His brooding eyes and wooden acting do little to advance the ball of spaghetti that serves as the drama's plot line.
Meanwhile, Tim Daly, protagonist of "The Nine," makes us wait interminably as though again we're caught in a two-bit municipal airport during the holiday crush in the middle of a snowstorm.
What happened during the 52-hour standoff of a foiled bank robbery? Taking a page from Jack Bauer, the answer will be revealed -- like a Band-Aid pulled much too slowly from a scab -- in 52 episodes allowing for Daly and his cohorts to collect 49 superfluous paychecks.
Add in the lame military PSYOPS cum Stockholm Syndrome angle and we've got a hole in ABC's Wednesday night schedule. However, the lead-in audience from "Lost" alone will allow this show to sputter along over two seasons. And that's two seasons too long in my not-so-humble opinion.
I'm going back to "The Simpson's" re-runs from the third through eighth seasons, when they were at the subversive highpoint, to tide me over the six days to another new "Lost" episode.
# # #
Who Used Who?
LOS ANGELES (SNARKY) -- "The Break-Up" has broken up.
Jennifer Aniston and Vince Vaughn have officially split up mere weeks before the DVD release of their collaboration. In a brilliant P.R. move -- loudly predicted by moi, by the way -- the split implores fans of Vaughnifer to quickly snatch up the disc as a memento to their happier times, a tchotchke of rebound love lost.
To fully appreciate the media savvy of the actors' actions, one has to take the macroview. Both of their careers were in the shitter: a bloated, balding, churlish little boy in Vaugh and a vapid, frigid, discarded-like-a-peach-Pitt Aniston.
Add the two zeros together in a vexing, not-quite-right relationship nurtured while shooting and you have the recipe for a high-rate-of-return public relations campaign for "The Break-Up."
Worldwide gross of "The Break-Up" is less than the sticker price of a Prius from surpassing $200 million. That's not bad for a formulaic he-said-she-said with no digital effects, car chases or explosions. Aniston's ass, notwithstanding.
But of the two main conspirators, who got more out of the relationship? Him or her?
Frankly, the argument could be made either way and still not be convincing to me. I feel that they both used the media who in turn used us the paying public. We've been had. Again.
We should learn a valuable lesson from this break up but we won't. We'll repave this long standing Hollywood rut with the speculation and rumor and inordinate interest in the next pair of celebrities who need a career boost.
It's probably a good thing; there are plenty of babies in the Third World that need adopting.
# # #
Jennifer Aniston and Vince Vaughn have officially split up mere weeks before the DVD release of their collaboration. In a brilliant P.R. move -- loudly predicted by moi, by the way -- the split implores fans of Vaughnifer to quickly snatch up the disc as a memento to their happier times, a tchotchke of rebound love lost.
To fully appreciate the media savvy of the actors' actions, one has to take the macroview. Both of their careers were in the shitter: a bloated, balding, churlish little boy in Vaugh and a vapid, frigid, discarded-like-a-peach-Pitt Aniston.
Add the two zeros together in a vexing, not-quite-right relationship nurtured while shooting and you have the recipe for a high-rate-of-return public relations campaign for "The Break-Up."
Worldwide gross of "The Break-Up" is less than the sticker price of a Prius from surpassing $200 million. That's not bad for a formulaic he-said-she-said with no digital effects, car chases or explosions. Aniston's ass, notwithstanding.
But of the two main conspirators, who got more out of the relationship? Him or her?
Frankly, the argument could be made either way and still not be convincing to me. I feel that they both used the media who in turn used us the paying public. We've been had. Again.
We should learn a valuable lesson from this break up but we won't. We'll repave this long standing Hollywood rut with the speculation and rumor and inordinate interest in the next pair of celebrities who need a career boost.
It's probably a good thing; there are plenty of babies in the Third World that need adopting.
# # #
Monday, October 2
Why I Wore A Pink Shirt To The Office Today
CHICAGO (SNARKY) -- Short answer: I love boobies.
Long answer: October is Breast Cancer Awareness Month and I wanted to show my solidarity with those afflicted with the disease.
Can you imagine a world without boobies? Frankly, I cannot nor do I really want to, thank you very much. The boobie, my raison d’être. The very epitome of womanhood; the quintessential giver of life. May we soon find a cure and stop this insidious illness.
So for all the petite A's and B's out there just trying to keep their head above water and for their voluptuous big sisters, the C's and D's -- who are more likely statistically to contract the cancer -- keep fighting the good fight.
And please know, Boobie, that in addition to myself, billions of men are looking out for you.
# # #
Long answer: October is Breast Cancer Awareness Month and I wanted to show my solidarity with those afflicted with the disease.
Can you imagine a world without boobies? Frankly, I cannot nor do I really want to, thank you very much. The boobie, my raison d’être. The very epitome of womanhood; the quintessential giver of life. May we soon find a cure and stop this insidious illness.
So for all the petite A's and B's out there just trying to keep their head above water and for their voluptuous big sisters, the C's and D's -- who are more likely statistically to contract the cancer -- keep fighting the good fight.
And please know, Boobie, that in addition to myself, billions of men are looking out for you.
# # #
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